How Livingston Learned to stop worrying
by otherhawk
Summary: ...and leave the straight and narrow. Pre-movie - 1989 to be exact. Livingston/Rusty pairing. Characters - Livingston, Rusty and Danny. How casual sex can change your life - but in a good way. COMPLETE!
1. Meeting

Authors note: This series/story is actually probably more than half-written. I expect there to be approximately six chapters. I was originally going to wait and put it all up in one piece, except I suddenly realised that not only was it getting pretty long, it would work a hell of a lot better if it were in sections. So I thought I might as well start posting. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and obviously, I don't own anything you recognise.

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_Look, I know I said that I'd tell you the truth and wouldn't leave anything out or anything, but there's something you need to understand. Most of this story involves Rusty and Danny in one way or another, and . . . Well. Those guys __**lie**__. A lot. _

**  
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He was pretty young at the time, probably more than a little naïve and still getting used to life outside of academics. It was a Friday night, and for the first time he had managed to scrape together the courage to visit the gay bar two blocks over from his work. This possibly had less to do with a sudden attack of self-confidence and more to do with the fact that he _really_ needed a drink after the day he'd had. Once again the no-necked, self-proclaimed security experts had ignored everything he'd said all day. He'd even caught them making fun of him behind his back. And it had seemed like such an amazing job to walk into after graduation. The reality was, it was pretty much just like being back in high school.

So now he was sitting at the bar, feeling completely out of place. None of the messing around he'd done in college had prepared him for _this_. There were two guys over there, wearing nothing but leather pants and bow ties and they were _wrestling_. That couldn't be normal, surely? He couldn't even tell if it was some kind of floorshow, or what.

"If that's what I had, I wouldn't be showing it off." He turned around to see who had spoken without even thinking about it. It was the blond. The one two bar stools away. The one he'd noticed the moment he walked in the place. The one who on a scale of one to ten, if he, Livingston, was a four, was probably about a thirty-eight. And that was even allowing for the fact that he was wearing what might just be the ugliest shirt Livingston had ever seen.

Immediately he looked around, knowing that the guy couldn't possibly be talking to him. But everyone else nearby seemed to be in groups. "Uh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"

Still staring at the wrestlers with an expression of vapid fascination, the blond said "Just talking."

"Right. I mean, I thought . . . I don't know what I thought." Well, that could have been more coherent. The blond turned his head and smiled lazily at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He had to say something witty and erudite _right now_. "Well, you know what they say," he tried, nodding over to the wrestlers. "If you don't got it flaunt it anyway."

The blond actually laughed! "That certainly seems to be the rule in this place." he agreed, retrieving his drink from the bar and rolling it against the side of his face –a gesture Livingston found peculiarly endearing. "I hate it here."

"Then how come you're in here?" he asked, scooting up onto the next stool, hoping it would pass unnoticed.

"It's the nearest place where I can get a drink the way I like, and where I won't see anyone from work." He sounded really tired.

"You had a rough day?" he asked, genuinely sympathetic.

"Technically I had a great day. But it began thirty-six hours ago."

Ouch. "You should go home." he suggested, feeling guilty that he was actually hoping for the opposite.

"Can't. My flatmate's having his latest crush over for a nice romantic dinner. Which means that he had me cook a 'three course gourmet feast' and then threw me out for the evening."

Livingston blinked. "That's not right." he said definitely. "You shouldn't let him take advantage of you like that."

For some reason that made the blond laugh.

"I'm serious." he persisted. "You should find a new flatmate or something."

"Yeah, maybe." He was still grinning. "Next time I'll tell him I won't be taken advantage of."

Livingston found himself smiling too, even though he didn't really know why. "You should."

"So how about you?" the blond asked, making an undecipherable gesture at the bartender. "Difficult day at work?"

"Just the usual jerks." he answered, "How did you know?"

"When you walked in here, you ignored the eye candy and headed straight for the alcohol. And judging by your suit and briefcase, you came straight from work."

"You saw me come in here?" he felt compelled to ask as the bartender poured him a fresh drink.

The blond hesitated slightly. "Sorry. I tend to notice things. Bad habit."

It didn't seem like a bad habit. It seemed kind of flattering "Let me get these." he nodded at the drinks, reaching into his wallet.

"Don't bother." It was then that he realised that the bartender had already wandered off. "They'll go on my tab."

He glanced to the side of the bar at the large sign that read 'No credit given. Absolutely no exceptions.' "You have a tab in bar that you hate?"

"I'm just that good." the blond replied, deadpan.

He sniggered. "I'm Livingston by the way. Livingston Dell."

"Rusty Ryan."

**  
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_Yeah, I know you saw that one coming. I wasn't trying to keep it secret. What do you mean I've no idea of narrative structure? Look, if you don't want to hear the rest of the story . . ._

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"So what do you do, Livingston?" He hated that question. It was inevitable in any social situation, but no-one was ever really interested in his answer – they just wrote him off as a geek. For a couple of seconds he was tempted to lie, say he was something more glamorous. A stand-up comedian, maybe.

"I'm in computers. I work for a security firm, setting up and programming surveillance systems."

"Yeah? Sounds really interesting."

Livingston glanced at him sharply, but he appeared to be serious. "It can be." Encouraged by the other man's attention he carried on talking, describing the problems he'd been having in the last week with the centralisation of the system at the Citibank on West Street. To his surprise, Rusty seemed to understand everything he was talking about, and asked quite a few intelligent questions. Apparently the blond stereotypes didn't hold water.

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_I know what you're thinking. I mean, you think I didn't wonder too, later, when I found out? But that bank was never robbed in any way that'd have anything to do with Rus'. So either I managed to design a system that he couldn't get through – unlikely – or he just chose not to hit it. Maybe he just wasn't comfortable using the information, after everything. Then again, as far as I remember, the questions that he asked – they were pretty general. Not the questions you'd ask if you were fishing for information. I don't know._

_You think I'm going to ask? Are you crazy? _

**  
**

When he finished the story, he realised he'd been talking pretty much non-stop for about twenty minutes He flushed and gulped his drink back. "So what do you do?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid. I'm in logistics." Rusty answered easily. "Mostly I spend my days figuring out the most efficient way of moving things from one place to another." He didn't volunteer any more details and very smoothly changed the subject. Understandable, in Livingston's eyes – he'd already said he was avoiding seeing his workmates tonight.

So they started talking about the films they'd seen lately – which, led naturally enough to a discussion of who would win in a fight between Batman and Indiana Jones; whether or not Twins was _really_ the worst film ever made; and if Bill Murray was sexy or just funny. They were laughing and joking together and for the first time he could remember, Livingston was conscious of receiving several jealous looks.

A few hours went by, and just as they finished discussing the secret evil plots of seagulls, Rusty looked at his watch. "They'll have finished dinner by now, and be doing whatever it is they do that I don't want to know about. Think I'll head on home."

Livingston swallowed. "Right." he agreed.

Rusty stood up, stretched and turned round. "So you coming with, or what?"

That was a really bad idea, right? He'd never thought of himself as the kind of guy who indulged in casual sex. He should refuse politely. Go home. Get some sleep. Regret it for the rest of his life.

Screw that. "Yes." he squeaked.

**  
**

They got hotdogs on the way home. It was far from any romantic ideal that Livingston could think of, but on the plus side they were really tasty. Just as well, since apparently they'd walked five blocks in the wrong direction to get them.

Eventually, however, they arrived at a spacious fifth floor apartment in a large brownstone. Not the sort of place he could imagine being able to afford any time soon. He looked round, a little envious; there was a huge TV, a leather sofa that looked like it had been chosen for comfort as much as style, and a stereo system with the largest speakers he'd ever seen. Apparently logistics paid pretty well. Or maybe Rusty had rich, doting parents or something.

There was also a mass of empty plates on the table, what looked like the remains of a Tiramisu with two spoons sticking out, and a trail of discarded clothes leading from the table to what was presumably a bedroom door.

Livingston saw all this, and then Rusty leaned forwards kissed him, and he stopped looking. Or thinking. Or breathing.

"Want to go to bed?" Rusty whispered in his ear.

"God, yes."

**  
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_Uh, I don't think you really want to hear the next part, right? _

_. . . Oh._

_Well, that makes me kind of uncomfortable, to be honest._

_Anyway, let's just say it was __**amazing **__and leave it at that. It's not like there are enough adjectives in the world to describe it. _

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So, what do you think? Next part's written and will be up shortly.


	2. Morning After

When he woke up daylight was streaming through the window. Apparently he had slept slightly longer than he'd expected. That or you got a better class of morning in this neighbourhood.

He opened his eyes slightly; Rusty was sitting up in bed next to him, blanket twined around his legs, seemingly intent on the book he was reading. Squinting his eyes, Livingston could just make out the title; Pride and Prejudice. That seemed kind of unlikely.

He looked younger than Livingston had thought. In fact, if he had to guess, he'd say that Rusty was a few years younger than he was. It was probably a matter of self-confidence. After all, _he'd_ never have the nerve to pick someone up in a bar. Except he kinda had. And now he was lying in someone else's bed.

How _exactly_ were one night stands supposed to work? Perhaps he should have left in the middle of the night, or even immediately afterwards. Though Rusty had told him to stay . . . but it might have been one of those things, where people told you to do something expecting you to know that they didn't mean it. But he never knew.

**  
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"Want some breakfast?" Rusty asked, without looking up from his book.

He blushed, knowing that – somehow – he'd been caught staring. "Uh, great. That's be just . . . great."

Rusty shrugged off the blanket, stood up and stretched lazily. He was, of course, completely naked. Livingston hurriedly averted his eyes and listened to the leisurely sounds of drawers opening and shutting.

"You can look now. I'm decent." Rusty sounded amused.

Livingston turned round; he was dressed in tight jeans and a white t-shirt. "You look good." he said involuntarily.

Rusty actually looked surprised. "Thanks. You want me to . . . ?" he nodded towards Livingston's clothes, neatly folded on the chair. Livingston was vaguely impressed that in the midst of everything he'd still managed to think of creases. He was even more impressed that Rusty had simply stood back and waited for him.

He nodded, suddenly horribly aware of his own nakedness. He waited until Rusty had turned his back before quickly pulling on his own clothes. "Guess this seems pretty stupid, huh." he said, as Rusty turned back around.

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Rusty appeared to think for a few moments. "Odd." he said finally. "Not stupid. We all have our quirks."

"Keeps things interesting." For some reason an image of Rusty innocently eating a hotdog flashed into his mind. Concentrating on not blushing, he followed Rusty into the main room. The mess had mysteriously vanished.

"Guess he's up." Rusty muttered, crossing to the refrigerator. "OK, we got eggs, donuts, burger relish, a tub of humus for some reason – ugh. How does French toast and coffee sound?"

"That'd be great." he repeated, wishing he didn't feel so awkward.

"Right." A couple of moments of lazy rummaging in a cupboard followed. "Ah. We're almost out of bread."

"We could skip breakfast." he said hastily. "I'm not that hungry." He didn't want to be the cause of any inconvenience.

"Uh uh. I skip meals and bad things happen. Look, I'll run out to the shop. Could you fix coffee? The stuff's on the counter there."

"Sure." he nodded.

"I'll be back in five." He vanished out the door.

**  
**

An instant later the second bedroom door opened. Two things struck Livingston immediately; one, Rusty's flatmate was almost as good-looking as Rusty; and two, Rusty's flatmate's 'latest crush' was, in fact, a woman.

"There's a man in your living room." The girl announced.

"Oh. Hi." The guy sounded surprised.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Rusty's flatmate was straight. He'd just assumed that he'd be gay. What should he do now? Suppose the guy didn't know Rusty liked guys? He couldn't run the risk of outing the first guy who'd looked at him in two years.

"Uh, hi. Rusty just popped out to get some bread. For breakfast. You're probably wondering why I'm here. Well, I'm a friend of Rusty's, and I happened to meet him in a bar last night, and, well, I missed the last train home, and Rusty said I could sleep on his floor. So I did. Sleep with him . . . uh . . . sleep in his room, where he was also sleeping." He took a breath. "And that's why I'm here."

All the time he was talking the guy had just been watching him, smiling slightly. "Oh. I just assumed you guys were screwing. I'm Daniel Ocean by the way. You can call me Danny."

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_Well of course it was Danny. Think about it for two minutes, would you? Can you think of anyone else in the __**universe **__who could persuade Rusty to cook for him and then throw him out of the house? Not to mention, I'm not actually convinced that anyone else could actually live with Rusty. I mean, I love the guy, but Jeez!_

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Livingston had stopped spluttering by the time Rusty came back. "Hi, Susie. Morning, Danny." he nodded, seemingly completely unphased by the sight of the three of them sitting round the table drinking coffee. "You guys want breakfast?"

Susie looked at her watch. "I'll _just_ have time." she announced. "I've got that launch in a couple of hours. Did you say you guys had the day off today, Danny?"

"Yeah." Danny nodded.

"You guys work together?" Livingston asked curiously.

Just for a fraction of a second the atmosphere grew tense. Susie didn't seem to notice, but he certainly did. And he caught a quick glance between the two flatmates that he would swear _somehow_ contained an entire conversation.

And just like that it was over. "Same company different departments." Rusty answered easily, rattling pans expertly.

"What are you making anyway?" Danny asked, and suddenly the subject was closed.

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_Yeah, I know why they were nervous. See they had this thing, back then – maybe they still do it, I'm not sure - where they'd always say they worked together, but they had this really bad habit of not agreeing on a story beforehand. Think it's because they never really expected anyone to stick around. I don't know . . . _

_Anyway, Rusty mostly went for cute lines, like his logistics thing, you know? Just things that amused him. Danny, on the other hand, used to just come up with the most preposterous cover stories. I think Susie thought that they worked for a fashion magazine, and I know that he told a couple of people they were landscape gardeners. _

_Well of course everyone believed him. He's Danny Ocean, after all. He could sell the Statue of Liberty back to the French. Actually, I think they did that once . . . _

**  
**

After breakfast was eaten, and Susie had departed the three of them lounged around, talking and drinking coffee. Well, Livingston and Danny were drinking coffee. Rusty was drinking a can of Mountain Dew – something that Livingston hadn't even _seen_ since he was an undergrad playing D&D.

He'd meant to leave immediately after breakfast. He really had. But he'd gotten into an argument with Danny about Da Vinci, and somehow it just hadn't happened.

He had to admit – with the notable exception of the events of last night – this was the most fun he'd had in months. Rusty and Danny were really easy to talk to and _funny_. It was only now that he realised how much he'd missed talking to people he actually liked. Too bad he'd probably never see either of them again after today.

"So you want to go somewhere tonight?" Rusty asked him suddenly.

Before he could even think of trying to answer, Danny laughed. "I've got to get you one of those rule books for your birthday."

Livingston blinked. "Rule books?"

"You know, one of those dating rule books that tell you things like you're not supposed to ask people out if there's someone else in the conversation."

"We're dating?" Livingston blurted out, and immediately wished he hadn't.

For a second – for _less_ than a second – Livingston would have sworn that Rusty looked hurt. Then he leaned back against the arm of the couch and with an expression of casual disinterest said, "Not if you don't want to."

Danny's tone and expression were pointedly neutral. "I'm sorry. I just assumed."

"No!" Livingston shouted hastily. He just hadn't been expecting it, was all. "I just hadn't . . . " he swallowed. "I mean, I'd love to go out with you, Rusty."

Rusty grinned happily. "Good."

**  
**

Danny started clearing up the coffee mugs.

"So, tonight?" Rusty persisted. "That new movie, Dead Poet's Society is premiering. I could get tickets."

"I can't do tonight." he found himself saying. "I've got plans." He didn't, but there was just a vague thought in the back of his mind that he should be playing hard to get.

Rusty shrugged. "OK, I could get them for tomorrow. It won't be the premiere, but the movie'll be the same. And we can go out for dinner afterwards."

"That sounds great." he said enthusiastically. After all, there was only so much playing hard to get a man could reasonably do when sitting on the object of his affections' couch.

Danny coughed. "Rus'? We've got that thing tomorrow night remember. And if you think I'm telling Saul that we have to cancel because you've got a date then you've lost your mind."

"I'd forgotten." Rusty said, with an apologetic glance at him.

"What thing?" Livingston asked.

"It's a meet and greet thing at an art gallery. More an exercise in client-pleasing than anything else." Danny waved a hand dismissively.

**  
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_If I had to guess, I'd say that the part about the art gallery was the truth._

_What? Yeah, we got a date sorted out eventually. I suppose, if you think about it, if we hadn't I wouldn't be here._

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So what do you reckon? By the way, just for my own curiosity, how many people just assumed that Danny was Rusty's flatmate in chapter one? 


	3. First Date

Apart from the bit about playing hard to get – which had been _so successful, _after all – Livingston wasn't exactly sure what he should be doing. He had a vague memory that you weren't supposed to sleep with anyone until the third date. Oops. Well, he could always not sleep with Rusty again until their third date. Yeah. Because that was going to happen.

Other things, should he be buying Rusty flowers? Did men do that for other men? Actually, did men even do that for women on first dates anymore? If he was and he didn't, he'd look like a jerk. And if he _wasn't_ and he _did_ . . . then he'd look like a complete idiot. OK. Wait a minute. If he did get flowers, then what would Rusty do with them? They were meeting at the theatre – he'd have to hold them all the way through the movie. Not a good idea. No flowers then.

Chocolates? Well, if he got chocolates . . . Rusty would eat them. That seemed a given. Still, he wasn't quite sure whether he should be buying a present at all.

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_You know, I don't really know why I was worried about that. With hindsight, you can never go wrong buying a present. Unless, maybe, they think that since you bought them a present, you were expecting one back. That could be awkward. Or if you bought something completely inappropriate, or something tacky or cheap. Or . . . you know what? I'll just shut up and get on with the story. . _

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He squinted at his reflection in the mirror and sighed. At least his hair was neat. The tie he still wasn't sure about though. It was a good tie, he just wasn't sure if he should wear it. His dad had told him – always wear a tie on a first date. Mind you, his dad was also the one who had told him about playing hard to get, and giving flowers. He tugged it off his neck and threw it in a corner. Then he carefully picked it off the floor, smoothed it out and hung it on the tie rack. That taken care of, he undid his top button and headed out the door. He would pick up a box of candy on the way. Maybe. Or not.

**  
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As it turned out, he was about half an hour early. He stood in the foyer, clutching the chocolates he'd finally decided on. They'd been pretty expensive, and now he was a little concerned that it was going to look like he was trying too hard. But it was probably worse to look cheap. Wasn't it? And that was another thing to consider; should he offer to pay, or at least to go halves? It seemed pretty clear that Rusty made more money than him, so maybe not, but he really didn't want to risk offending. There must be customs, rules or whatever, to cover this situation and he just didn't know them. Maybe Rusty was worrying about the same things.

There were people giving him sidelong glances. He'd been standing here for a while; it probably looked like he'd been stood up. Ah. He checked his watch – still very early. Nothing to worry about. Only what would he do if he _was_ stood up? Swallowing nervously, he wondered why the thought hadn't occurred to him before. It was all too easy to imagine himself standing there for the rest of the night.

**  
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"Hey. Thought I was early." The voice came from just behind him and he jumped, startled. He hadn't seen Rusty come in, even though he'd been looking. It was a little strange, but the relief of seeing Rusty and knowing that he hadn't been stood up drove it out of his mind almost instantaneously.

He turned and smiled happily. Rusty looked amazing, and Livingston was suddenly really glad that he hadn't worn the tie. "You are. I just got here first."

"Ah." Rusty nodded thoughtfully. "I got the tickets already. So we don't need to wait in the queue."

That was good – the queue was snaking out the door and round the street. He couldn't see that most of the people waiting had any chance of getting a ticket, let alone getting in on time.

"Oh!" he suddenly remembered the candy. "These are . . . I wasn't sure if . . . " He should have thought of something romantic to say ahead of time. Or at least something coherent. "Here."

"For me?" Rusty examined the box carefully, and suddenly looked up at him with a smile that took his breath away. "Thank you."

He shrugged, self-consciously. "No big deal, right?"

As they walked past the queue they received several dirty looks. Livingston couldn't quite figure out whether it was for him giving Rusty chocolates, or if it was just because they didn't have to wait in line.

"Reminds me of high school and cutting into the pictures on a Friday afternoon." Rusty commented.

"I never did that." he said, startled.

Rusty looked at him. "Really?"

Nodding, he added. "Never cut class either."

"You must have been such a good boy." Rusty teased, and it was only the amused affection in his tone that stopped Livingston from blushing.

"I always figured you needed to study hard to get anywhere." he said, and frowned. Need to go to school in order to get into college. Need to study hard to get into grad school. Need to work hard in order to find a _good job_. With _prospects_.

"I think you need to know what you want." For the first time Rusty sounded entirely serious, and Livingston wondered if he'd somehow heard what he hadn't said.

"What do you want?" he asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. That seemed a slightly too intimate question to ask on a first date.

Rusty just grinned though. "Popcorn." he said immediately. Livingston decided not to point out that they were going out to dinner after the film.

**  
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They strolled towards the concession stand and Rusty picked up the largest size of popcorn before turning back to look at Livingston. "You want anything?"

Livingston blinked. "Uh, I'm pretty sure that's designed to be shared. Possibly by an army."

A raised eyebrow was the only response, and Livingston shook his head and grabbed himself a smaller carton of popcorn. "I'll get these." He said hastily. "Since you got the tickets."

Rusty looked slightly surprised, but didn't object. Good. Seemingly he was doing something right.

**  
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**  
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The film had been excellent and it hadn't made him cry, which was always a bonus. Crying in public always led to humiliation in his experience. Oddly enough he'd have sworn that he'd heard _Rusty_ sniffling at one point. He must have imagined it though. Surely.

Afterwards Rusty had led him to a restaurant called Mundaes – one of those little places down an alley, that he was pretty sure no-one would ever find on their own.

The manager seemed to recognise Rusty. Somehow Livingston wasn't surprised. They were greeted effusively and led to a private booth in a secluded, dimly lit corner.

"Do you come here often?" he asked, when they were settled in. Rusty looked amused. "Ah, that wasn't supposed to be a line."

"Me and Danny come here sometimes when we want to talk business and eat."

"I would have thought you could eat anywhere." he remarked.

"There's only so much pizza a man can eat. Well, OK, there isn't. But it's nice to eat out sometimes, and the food here is amazing." He leaned back in his chair. "I don't bring all my dates here, if that's what you mean. Actually, I don't really date that much."

Livingston eyed him sceptically. "Right."

"I don't." Rusty said calmly. "I just have a lot of sex."

**  
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**  
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_Yeah, well, we all know that's true. And no, I have no idea why I was an exception._

**  
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_. . . Well, it's nice of you to say so._

**  
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_The truth is though, other than the obvious, no-one's ever been able to hold Rusty's attention for long._

**  
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**  
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The waiter brought a couple of garish pink cocktails over. "On the house." he said, and vanished.

"And you only come here sometimes?" Livingston asked, not exactly disbelievingly. He remembered that tab in the no-credit bar. Maybe there was just some strange power he wasn't aware of.

"I tip well and I'm always polite." Rusty shrugged. "It makes a difference. You never take a job in the service industry when you were in college?"

"No, I used to tutor." he answered puzzled. "I take it you have?"

"Few times, waiting tables. Never for more than a few weeks at a time. Anyway, the point is, always be polite if you want your food uncontaminated."

"Unconta . . . oh." He suddenly got it. "Oh, that's disgusting."

"Yeah. Not a problem here though." He leaned forward and squinted at the pink drink. "What, exactly, is this?"

Livingston glanced at his own glass. "I'd assumed that you knew."

"Never seen anything like it." He reached for the straw.

"You think they're trying to tell us something?" he asked, suddenly wondering if there were some deeper significance to the drinks.

"Mmm. Tastes like bubblegum."

That was probably a no.

**  
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**  
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After dinner – which was indeed delicious, and during which they talked about the time Livingston tried to get his college football team to understand calculus, and something funny that had happened in Rusty's work involving a disgruntled client, an overzealous security guard and an elevator – once Rusty had finished scraping up every last crumb of Black Forest Gateaux, Livingston finally managed to gather the nerve to ask "So, can I see you again?"

Rusty laid his spoon down. "Well, I'm going out of town for a couple of weeks on Saturday. Business trip. Me and Danny are heading up to Chicago to deal with an issue our opposite number has been having."

"Oh." he said, fighting a wave of disappointment. "Well, that's OK. I mean, I didn't . . . " He wasn't quite sure how he was going to end that, but it seemed pretty likely that his mouth was leading him straight into trouble – probably something like 'I mean, I didn't really want to see you.'

Fortunately Rusty interrupted him. "So, I was going to ask if you could have lunch with me on Friday? I'll be busy Friday night, but I'd like to see you before I go."

"Of course I can!" he said immediately, before considering. "Well, I have to work. And I only get a twenty minute break."

It was Rusty's turn to look disappointed. He didn't try and hide it, and Livingston felt strangely gratified. "I can ditch it though." he said quickly. "I'll say I have to go to the dentist or something. I'm sure they'll buy it."

Rusty smiled. "Am I a bad influence on you?" he asked, sounding amused.

"Someone has to be." Livingston answered seriously. He was just a little tired of always trying to be the clean-cut, wholesome one, never in trouble, never putting a foot wrong.

**  
**

And after they paid the bill, when Rusty just assumed they were both going back to his place, well. It was one less thing to worry about.

* * *

So what'd you think? As ever, I'm really anxious to hear all opinions. 


	4. Relationships can be

So. No phone call, no way of getting in touch with him and nearly an hour and a half late. There was no getting round it. He was a bastard.

Livingston swore as he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. It was just his luck that the first time in two weeks that he actually had plans was also the day when he had to stay late at work. And it was just his luck that he'd left the note of Rusty's number on his bedside table. It was really sweet about that note actually. He'd only found it after their date, in his pant's pocket. Rusty must have put it there while he was asleep, since he would have noticed a hand in his pocket – those pants were pretty tight. But still, he'd been so happy to have Rusty's number that he'd kind of, maybe, slightly forgotten to give Rusty his. He bit at his lip. There was just no getting round it. He was screwed. And deservedly so.

More than a little out of breath, he leaned heavily on the doorbell and almost immediately regretted it. He probably should have just knocked quietly, or something. Rusty was probably already mad at him, no sense making it worse.

He was just thinking trying knocking when the door swung open to reveal a smiling, very pissed off Danny Ocean.

**  
**

_If you ever want to make Danny mad - I mean, really, properly mad, not just the Terry Benedict I-would-be-angry-at-you-but-really-I-just-find-you-slightly-pathetic kind of mad – then that's the way to do it. Personally, I wouldn't recommend it. _

**  
**

"I'm sorry." he blurted out, largely involuntarily. Danny raised an eyebrow, but didn't move. "There was an emergency at work, and I tried to get away early, I really did."

Danny studied him intently for a few, incredibly long, moments then stepped back. "Come in."

Feeling more than a little apprehensive, Livingston followed him inside. Rusty was sitting on the kitchen counter. Livingston's eyes were immediately drawn to the half-finished carton of ice-cream beside him, with two spoons sticking out. He opened his mouth to say something half-way sensible, when Rusty leapt off the counter and kissed him. He tasted of wine and chocolate, and everything that Livingston had been missing for the past two weeks.

When they finally broke apart, he looked at the floor. "I really am sorry."

"Good." Danny said, before vanishing into his room.

Rusty apparently ignored him. "Don't worry about it."

"But we've missed the reservation." Rusty had booked a table at the Four Seasons, arguing that if they had to wait two weeks for a date, it might as well be worth it. And he had casually assured Livingston that it would be his treat, as he would almost certainly get a big bonus for the Chicago trip. The man was a mind reader. Or Livingston was terrible at hiding his worries.

Rusty shook his head. "Nah, it's not until nine."

"But you booked it for seven." He remembered distinctly and started to panic. "Oh god, you changed it, didn't you? When I was late? It's Saturday night, how much did you have to . . . "

"Nothing like that." Rusty cut in. "They called me earlier today, saying there was a mix-up, and asking if we'd mind eating later. I figured that would be OK."

He relaxed slightly. "That's a fortunate coincidence."

"No such thing as coincidences." Danny announced, re-emerging. He was buttoning up a new shirt, obviously getting ready to go out. Livingston tried hard not to stare.

Rusty looked over at him. "Livingston was just saying how lucky it was that the restaurant changed our reservation to later."

Danny nodded. "Yeah, that was pretty lucky in the circumstances."

"You going – "

" - Yeah. Do you think - ?"

" – No, go with the blue."

"Or maybe - ?"

" – You want to impress Annabelle?"

Livingston doubted he would ever get used to that. "Wait, I thought her name was Suzie?"

They both looked at him.

"Oh."

"So, what was the emergency at work?" Rusty asked, leading him to the couch. They had time to relax now, after all.

"Oh, it was, well, it was all a bit complicated." he shrugged. "See, there was this big robbery, and it wasn't our company that had secured the place, it was one of our rivals, but we use the same sorts of systems. So suddenly they're all saying that there must be a flaw and we need to start analysing everything."

"Is there?" Rusty asked casually.

He shrugged. "No system is perfect." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Hey, the robbery that started all this was in Chicago. Two days ago, some rich guy's mansion. Maybe you heard about it?"

Rusty nodded, smiling. "I think it was on the local news."

"Livingston, would you like a glass of wine?" Danny was already pouring three glasses from an old-looking bottle.

"Thanks." He took the offered glass and cautiously took a sip. He wasn't a big drinker. "That's nice." he said, surprised.

"Picked it up in Chicago."

**  
**

_That reminds me, that robbery that I had to analyse? One of the – many – things that were stolen was the guy's collection of rare and expensive wines. How ridiculous is that as a hobby? Collecting wine, I mean, who would seriously pay $1500 for a bottle of wine? _

_It was really, __**really**__ nice though. _

**  
**

After that, they settled into a routine. Well, not really a routine. Rusty – and Danny, for that matter – both worked an incredibly complex and flexible shift pattern. Sometimes for days or even weeks at a time Livingston would be able to see Rusty anytime he wanted - almost as if he didn't have to go to work at all – while at other times it would seem as if he was pulling several twenty four hour days at a stretch. Still, they always got to see each other at least a couple of times a week, and it didn't matter if they went to catch a movie or a concert, or ate in a classy restaurant or just the diner in the corner, or even if they simply curled up on Rusty's sofa and watched MacGyver or Star Trek; because when he was with Rusty he was more relaxed than he could ever remember being. And it was good.

Of course, he ended up seeing quite a lot of Danny as well, which was fine. He had no problem with that; Danny was fun. But, well, there were a couple of things that made him nervous.

Rusty had needed to leave for a meeting, after he and Danny had a long – well, argument was the wrong word. Discussion might be more appropriate. Mild, childish bickering was probably closer still. Anyway, it had been something about someone called Phil Turrentine, and Danny had won by pointing out that if _he_ went, Rusty would have to take the meeting again later anyway, as there was no way Danny would understand a single word. Since Rusty had given up at that point, apparently it was a valid argument. Then, they'd somehow agreed between them that Livingston should stay at the flat until Rusty got back – which should be 'no more than an hour'. Livingston hadn't had a say in it. Fortunately, he thought it was a great plan, mostly because he and Rusty had been _up all night_ and he was a little too tired to move. Or stop smiling.

So he and Danny were sitting in the living room; Livingston was vaguely watching the news and Danny was studying a book on the history of post-Impressionist paintings that it was apparently imperative he learn by Friday. Something to do with a new girlfriend, or potential girlfriend Livingston would guess.

"You've been spending a lot of time over here, lately." Danny said suddenly, without looking up from his book.

Livingston blinked, feeling unaccountably a little nervous. "Uh, yes. Is that a problem?"

Danny waved a hand dismissively. "No, not at all. I like you, Livingston. I'd like to think we could be friends."

"That's, that's good." he stuttered, slightly out of his depth. "I – "

But Danny cut him off. "But what you need to understand is that I like _him_ more. Always have, always will, it's nothing personal. And if you ever hurt him, well. I'm going to have to be irrational about it." And then Danny did look up, and he was smiling again, and Livingston had to fight the temptation to run for the door.

"I understand."

He couldn't help but wonder if this was normal.

**  
**

_You know, I always wondered whether Isobel got the same speech. I know for a fact that Tess got the opposite version. Both times. _

**  
**

It was about a month after that when Livingston was woken by the sound of the telephone. To be fair, he'd normally be up by this time, but he had a rare day off, and no plans till he met Rusty in the evening, so he'd decided to stay in bed as long as he could. They were going out to a concert tonight. Some band that he'd never heard of, but that Rusty had seemed really enthusiastic about. And he owed Rusty, having dragged him to a comic book convention the previous weekend. Anyway, it might be fun.

He picked up the handset sleepily. "Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" Rusty's voice.

He smiled, immediately more awake. "No." he lied.

There was a somehow sceptical silence.

"Well, yes." he admitted. "But I don't mind."

"OK then. Listen Livingston, I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to cancel our date tonight. Something's come up."

"Oh." He wished he'd tried harder to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Rusty already sounded guilty enough. There was a crash of glasses and the sound of raised voices squabbling in the background. "Where are you?" he asked curiously.

There was an infinitesimally small pause. "Hotel. We were called out of town on business."

So Danny was there too. Not that surprising. "Where?"

A slightly longer pause. "Tahiti."

What the hell? "Your work can send you to Tahiti just like that?" He wasn't quite yelling. Not quite.

"It was urgent." Rusty sounded calm.

"Who's he talking to?" A voice in the background. An older man by the sound of it.

"New boyfriend." That was Danny, and it did give him a slightly warm feeling to hear himself described like that.

"Wait." A new voice. "Boyfriend? As in multiple dates, flowers and chocolates kind of boyfriend? This I gotta see to believe."

"Guys. A little privacy, please?" There was a slight edge to Rusty's voice.

"Let me talk to him." the older man demanded. "I want to – "

"OK, that's enough." Danny declared. "Rusty, we'll see you in the bar. Say hi to Livingston for me."

There was a slight pause, and Livingston could hear more background squabbling, getting further away. "Danny says hi." Rusty said finally.

"I heard." He wasn't quite sure how to ask the next question. "Is everyone you work with that . . . " he trailed off. Insane? Eccentric? Odd? He couldn't think of an inoffensive word.

Luckily Rusty seemed to know what he meant. "Oh, yes."

**  
**

_That was the first time I ever heard Reuben and Saul's voices. I didn't actually meet either of them for a month or so after that. And no, I have no idea what they were doing in Tahiti. _

_No, Tahiti was odd, but it wasn't what made me start suspecting. It took a lot more than that, actually. _

* * *

So, did you like it? Major 'you have watched that movie too often' points to anyone correctly identifying Phil Turrentine without checking. And yes. I have watched that movie too often. I know this to be true.


	5. But they're also

It was difficult to say exactly what first tipped Livingston off to the fact that there was something odd about his boyfriend. Well, rather it was difficult to say exactly what tipped him off to the fact that his boyfriend's self-evident oddness couldn't be explained by perfectly normal, day-to-day surrealism.

All right, so the whole entirely unpredictable shift-pattern thing was weird, but they lived in a 24-hour city after all. And Rusty apparently worked for a specialised, international company, so Livingston could just about understand how he might have to just work as he was needed. OK, so not really.

What was really odd though was the fact that he didn't know _where_ Rusty worked, or even what his company was called. Unfortunately he didn't realise that until after they'd been going out for a couple of months, and the thought of asking at _that_ stage, well, it was just too embarrassing to contemplate. It wasn't like Rusty had ever been to his office; Livingston was too afraid of the security jocks for that. Probably Rusty was just closeted at work too. He could understand that, even if, inexplicably, it disappointed him.

_Yeah, I know. 'Rusty' and 'closeted' don't exactly go together, do they? Everyone and their mom knows. Seriously. Remember when Frank was in jail in Amsterdam? I was left looking after his phone and his mom called every day – which is a little weird, now I come to think of it, but never mind. _

_No, I didn't tell her he'd been arrested, on account of how I wanted to go on breathing. _

_Anyway, in between telling me about Frank's sister's brother-in-law's operation, and making sure we were all eating well and dressing warmly, she was trying to get me to help her set Rusty up with her next-door-neighbour's son. Apparently he was a graphic designer and would be 'just perfect' for Rusty. Yeah. I _know_._

_Still, remember that casserole she FedExed to us in Vegas? I haven't tasted home-cooking like that in years. Unbelievable._

* * *

One night Livingston had come over unexpectedly as there'd been an emergency at work that had turned out not to be. He'd been in two minds over whether he should drop by, but O'Brien had been hassling him again and they'd lost the Chesney-Boothe account (which wasn't his fault, no matter what that bastard said) and he had really just wanted to see Rusty.

Still, Rusty had seemed pleased to see him, even though it was fairly obvious he'd interrupted something – the ink-stained fingers and empty boxes of donuts spoke to that.

"Don't worry." Rusty yawned when he timidly asked if he should leave. "I could probably use a break anyway."

"How long have you been working?" Livingston asked curiously. It had been a couple of days since they'd last met up.

Rusty shrugged. "What time is it?"

"About eight." he answered, checking his watch.

There was a pause. "Uh . . . a.m. or p.m.?" Rusty asked at last, rubbing at the corner of his mouth and leaving dark smudges.

"P.M. Rusty . . . ?" he began, beginning to have the feeling that this wasn't going to be of their more romantic evenings.

"Actually, what day is it?" Rusty went on thoughtfully.

"Rusty!"

Rusty looked at him. "What?" The ink had now spread all over his mouth. Livingston fought the urge to laugh.

"Why don't you go and have a shower and I'll see if I can find us something to eat that isn't purely sugar-based."

Rusty yawned again. "Yeah. Okay."

"I take it Danny isn't in?" he asked, already knowing the answer. If Danny had been there Rusty would probably have been forced to take a break hours (days?) ago. Or, alternately, he'd be facing two sleep-deprived zombies.

"Nah, he's checking things from the inside." Rusty answered, automatically, stretching and seemingly simultaneously cracking every bone in his body.

Livingston frowned curiously. "The inside of what?"

"Mmm?" Rusty turned to face him. "Oh, the company we're thinking of going into business with. Danny has to shadow someone in their shipping department, to check if our deployment practices are capable of merging co-efficiently."

"Uh huh." Livingston blinked. "What does that mean?"

"Truthfully? I have no idea."

Somehow he doubted that.

Once Rusty was in the shower and the pasta was boiling away on the stove – macaroni cheese wasn't the most exciting dish in the world, but he _could_ make it and he was almost certain it had marginally more nutritional value than donuts – he set to work tidying up the living room a little. Just picking up some of the empty wrappers and coffee cups that seemed to accumulate around Rusty when he was working. It was while he was collecting a fourth mug from under the coffee table (and honestly, how difficult would it be to rinse and reuse them?) that he noticed a stack of papers wedged firmly under the sofa. Slightly concerned that they might be something vitally important that Rusty had lost, he pulled them out and had a quick glance. That was . . . odd. They were building plans, with handwritten notes scribbled all round the edge.

"What are you doing?" Rusty was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel, which was nearly enough to make him forget the mystery.

"These are plans. Look." Resolutely he avoided looking anywhere but at the papers in his hand.

With a bemused sigh, Rusty crossed the room and peered over Livingston's shoulder. "So they are." he said eventually.

"Where did they come from?" Livingston asked, ignoring the fact that he was being dripped on.

Rusty shrugged. "No idea . . . oh. Wait." He paused for a second, as though trying to remember something. "Cathy."

Well, that helped not one bit. "Who?"

"Danny's ex."

Livingston rolled his eyes. In the seven months he'd been seeing Rusty he would estimate that Danny had dated close to thirty different women, which, considering that they all seemed to make it to at least four dates and he never saw more than one of them at a time, was no mean feat.

Rusty grinned in acknowledgement. "Last week. Tall. Blonde. Kind of Valkyrie-like, but without the singing. And - " he raised a hand significantly" – an architecture student."

That did seem reasonable. "So she left her homework here?" he asked.

Rusty shrugged. "I guess so. It's the only thing I can think of that makes sense."

He took a closer look at the plans. Huh. That was interesting. "You know, maybe she was a thief." he suggested with a grin.

Rusty frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Huh?"

"Well, look." he pointed. "These are vault plans."

"It's all just lines to me." Rusty admitted with a rueful smile.

Livingston sighed indulgently. "See this here? Only one way in and out. That's the door there. It's over a metre thick and you can see there's some sort of lock on it – don't really know what sort." Rusty looked impressed. "I see plans like this all the time in work. You pick a few things up."

"You know," Rusty said thoughtfully. "You might be right about Cathy. She did look the type"

"Oh, yeah?" Livingston raised an eyebrow.

"Yup." Rusty nodded. "Masked, dressed in stripes and carrying a large bag marked swag.

Livingston laughed. "You know, her handwriting looks a lot like yours." he commented, glancing down at the plans again.

Rusty looked momentarily offended. "Are you saying I have girly handwriting?"

"Well . . . " he temporised, backing off with a grin.

Rusty dropped the towel and closed the gap between them.

By the time Rusty had finished proving that there was nothing girly about him the pasta had boiled dry and dinner – and for that matter Rusty's best pan – was ruined, so Livingston forgot all about the plans.

_I know, I _**know**_. Believe me. When I think about telling Rus' how to read plans. . . Look at me. Nearly two decades and I'm still blushing. But you've got to understand – you don't immediately jump to the conclusion that your boyfriend is a successful criminal. You just don't._

_Look at Tess. She actually married Danny without noticing. At least I did better than that. Right?_

_And it's not like that was the only time. I remember once I found a black balaclava on the coffee table and asked Danny if he was taking up skiing. _

* * *

For the next couple of weeks Livingston rarely got to see Rusty for more than a quick lunch grabbed here and there. The latest job Rusty was involved in at work had apparently developed complications of the 'it can't be done' nature. Now he was finally going to spend a whole evening with Rusty he was more than a little reluctant. Things were humiliating enough already.

Rusty opened the door and Livingston watched his welcoming smile change to a look of concern. "What happened?"

Self-consciously Livingston put a hand up to the bruise spreading across his face. "Looks pretty bad, huh?"

Rusty seemed to remember himself and moved aside to let him in, taking the opportunity to kiss him quickly. "Yeah. Want a drink?"

"God, yes." he answered fervently.

Once they were both settled on the sofa, Rusty turned to him with a serious expression. "So. What happened?"

Livingston sighed. "You remember how I told you about O'Brien at work?"

Rusty nodded. "One of the security experts. The one who poured oil on your shirt."

"Yeah, well, he . . . " he trailed off. God this was embarrassing.

"He hit you?" Rusty asked incredulously.

"No! Well, not exactly." He winced slightly at the memory. "He was . . . I _thought_ he was holding a door open for me But he waited until I was on the threshold and swung it shut. It hit me," he gestured at his face, "I fell flat on my ass and he. . . " he clenched his fists, "He said 'Oops.'"

Rusty looked thoughtful. Furious, but thoughtful.

"They were all standing around laughing." He'd managed to blink back tears at the time, despite the fact that the door had caught him right across the nose, but somehow it was even more difficult now. "I _hate_ my job."

Rusty leaned over and kissed him for a very long time. At least he had one good thing in his life right now.

"You want to skip the restaurant tonight?" Rusty asked quietly.

He nodded. The thought of facing a room full of people who'd all be staring . . . definitely not what he wanted. "Let's just stay in and get drunk." he proposed, offering a toast with what turned out to be an empty glass. He leapt up, ignoring Rusty's half-hearted protestations, and headed to the fridge for more drink. The note caught his eye, as it always did. It had been there for about three weeks now and he still didn't get it. It read, in Danny's writing, 'The police are looking for us and we're out of milk.' Beneath that, Rusty had scrawled 'Well what do you want me to do about it?'

He was pretty sure it was some sort of joke.

_Actually I still think that. At any rate, nothing ever came of it except that we had to drink black coffee for a month and Rusty experimented with eating cereal with whipped cream._

* * *

At about midnight Danny came in, just as Livingston was explaining - for the third time – all the things he hated about O'Brien. " . . . and he thinks he's so macho when really he's just an idiot. And he thinks no-one knows he's moonlighting. I should tell the bosses. That'd show him. All those private clients. 'Security consultant'" He realised, in a moment of hideous self-awareness that he was actually doing air quotes and put his hands down with a grimace. "Just cos he sat in a lobby for years and years."

"What's going on?" Danny asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There's a guy at Livingston's work who's a problem." Rusty said. His gaze was fixed on Danny, and Livingston had the feeling that he was missing something significant here.

"Problem? He's an asshole." he explained.

"Exactly." Rusty agreed.

"I should have done something." Livingston muttered, wriggling further back into the sofa.

"Like what?" Danny asked, sprawling across the chair opposite.

"Hit him." Livingston said immediately. That's what he should have done. If he weren't such a coward.

"Hit a guy who's bigger and nastier than you? Never a good idea." Rusty said quickly.

"So I should just give up, right?" Only thing he could do. Good thing he had so much practice at it.

"No, you need to figure out what you can do to get back at him." Danny answered calmly.

"There isn't anything." he said, miserably.

Danny frowned. "Of course there – "

" – No!" he interrupted, aware that he was definitely angry at the wrong people. "There's nothing I can do." He took a deep breath. "I'm a no-one. I'm always going to be a no-one and people like O'Brien are always going to walk all over me."

"Livingston – " Rusty began, but he couldn't deal with any more and stormed into Rusty's room and slammed the door. Not, admittedly, the most sensible temper tantrum ever. If he'd really wanted to make a point he should have stormed off home. But he didn't want to be alone.

Rusty came through a few minutes later, and if he cried a little then, with his head against Rusty's shoulder, well, it was dark and no-one could see.

* * *

It was the next night when he woke up at one o'clock in the morning to realise that Rusty wasn't lying next to him. There were soft voices coming from the lounge, so he grabbed Rusty's bathrobe and went to check.

Rusty and Danny were standing in the kitchen, sorting through a large pile of papers. They were, he was surprised to see, fully dressed, even wearing shoes and coats. Must have been the door that woke him.

"Hey." he said, and immediately yawned.

They looked up. Huh. Must have been reading something interesting if they hadn't noticed him before. Normally the pair of them noticed _everything_.

"Hi." Rusty smiled warmly. "Did we wake you?"

"Guess so." He managed to avoid yawning again and nodded at the papers in Rusty's hand. "What's up?"

"Just a little project we want to get done as soon as possible." Danny answered with a shrug.

Right. It was going to be one of those times with them answering for each other and him never getting a straight answer. Did you just come from outside."

Rusty grinned slightly. "Just dealing with some trash."

Okay. "Are you coming back to bed?" He kind of hoped that Danny would think it was just sleep that was making his voice husky.

By the way Danny smirked, apparently not. Rusty looked from the papers to Livingston to Danny. "I think we can – "

" – Finish first thing in the morning. Yeah." If anything, Danny's smirk grew wider.

Rusty paused. "Wait, your 'first thing' or – "

" - Five a.m."

Livingston waited for a couple of seconds but that appeared to be everything settled. He headed back to the bedroom, aware of Rusty following him.

"Have fun." Danny called after them. Not for the first time, Livingston was glad that the apartment had such thick walls.

* * *

He got into work late the next day; Rusty and Danny had already left by the time he got up. No-one seemed to notice that he was late fortunately – they were all to busy standing in little groups, talking conspiratorially. Something was clearly up.

He sidled up to Charlie, one of his fellow tech-heads. "What's going on?"

"O'Brien's been called in to see the boss." Charlie told him, delightedly. "Get this – someone broke in his place last night."

"O'Brien's place?" he asked, trying to figure out the connection.

"Yeah. Seems all they took was his notes for all the stuff he does for his private clients. It was couriered to the boss first thing this morning along with a note and photos explaining exactly how easy it was to break into the great security expert's flat." Charlie laughed. "He's got a lot of explaining to do."

There was a tiny, unformed suspicion nagging at the back of his mind. "That's pretty funny." he managed.

"That's not all though." Charlie went on. "Seems the thieves also sent the same note to each of his clients – along with a copy of the security plans he'd done for them with a ten page summary of all the weak points."

"You're kidding." he said weakly.

"And it somehow got leaked to the papers. Coupla journalists have already been looking for quotes. Guess it makes a pretty funny story." Charlie shook his head. "Not only is he fired here, there's no way he's getting another job. He must have finally pissed off the wrong people."

Livingston quickly made his excuses and ran to the restroom to hide.

' . . . pissed off the wrong people. . . '

' . . . need to figure out what you can do to get back at him . . . '

' . . . just a little project . . . '

' . . . dealing with some trash . . . '

The words echoed in his mind and he splashed some water on his face and took a deep breath. OK. He was overreacting. This just wasn't possible. It was all just some strange coincidence.

It had to be.

_It wasn't._

* * *

**_Author's note : _Sorry this took so long. Hope someone's still reading it. ;D**


	6. Truth time

**So, here it is, the final chapter of this. Sorry that it took so long - I think possibly I may have some deep-seated psychological problem with actually finishing stories. Either that or I just suck.**

* * *

It had been nearly two weeks and Livingston still had no idea what to do. Everything he was thinking seemed so impossible. Because if Rusty had broken into O'Brien's house, then maybe he'd broken into other places. He would have to have; you don't just randomly decide that maybe burglarising some jerk's house was the best way of looking after your boyfriend. And that's what Rusty had been doing, and every time he started thinking along those lines he got even more confused. But there were words for people who made a habit of breaking and entering, and Livingston found it just a little bit difficult to apply any of them to the man sitting next to him on the sofa playing with a deck of cards and eating marshmallows.

But still, he hadn't been able to shake the thought that Rusty and Danny might be, well, _criminals_. It bothered him every time he saw either of them, and though nothing had been said he knew, just knew, that his nervousness had been noted, pondered over and probably discussed. He knew them well enough by now to understand that. And yes, he was nervous, it was as simple as that. Because if it was true then right now he could be sitting in a room with two extremely dangerous men. Admittedly the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that one of them was quietly arguing with an ex-girlfriend while the other was . . . licking powdered sugar off his fingers. Mmmm.

He forced himself to stop staring with an effort.

_Stop laughing, would you? They __**could**__ have been dangerous. I mean, I couldn't possibly have known that they're about as violent as linoleum. All I knew was that they possibly made a habit of breaking into people's houses and taking things that don't belong to them. You know how many images off stockings-over-heads and sawn-off shotguns were running through my mind?_

_Seriously, stop laughing. _

The argument that Danny was having had reached an extremely hushed fever-pitch. Livingston recognised her vaguely; Danny had dated her last month for about two weeks, give or take. She hadn't seemed to approve of Rusty and him much, and Livingston had formed the vague impression that that had been a major cause of the break-up. Which might explain why when he'd quietly suggested to Rusty that they move and give Danny some privacy Rusty had shook his head and continued with his card game. Solitaire, that was the one you could play alone, he thought. Must be some variant involving multiple decks though, that was the fifth Ace he'd seen go by. It might also explain why Danny was offering something less than his usual degree of charm.

"I mean, come on Danny. You could be doing so much more with your life. And I know I said I never wanted to see you again, because you never take anything seriously and you've got no ambition, and you'll never admit that you're wrong, and your _friends_ . . . but you know, I've thought about it I'm willing to overlook all that."

Throughout the monologue, Danny was starting to look a little desperate, and Livingston watched curiously as Rusty leaned across and quietly tore a piece of paper out of the notebook he'd been pretending to work in, scrawled 'Gail' across it in large letters and held it up behind her back.

"Listen, Gail," Danny said immediately, holding up his hands placatingly. "It's been lovely seeing you again, but the simple fact of the matter is it would never work between us, for all the reasons you listed and more. So," He started ushering her towards the door. "I don't think that we should continue to torment ourselves with what might have been, do you?" Looking completely bemused, she vanished out the door, and Danny shut it with a sigh.

Rusty raised his eyebrows. "Torment ourselves with what might have been?"

Danny shrugged. "Got it from – "

" – I know, I watch that show too, remember?"

Dangerous criminals, Livingston reminded himself.

* * *

The sound of the phone woke him up the next morning, but only very vaguely, and even the sensation of Rusty's arm being removed from around his waist, and the feeling of the mattress shifting as Rusty got up prompted nothing more than a mild groan of protest before he rolled over into the warmth left behind.

No, the first thing he was he was really aware of was Rusty – fully dressed – shaking him awake. "What is it? Are we on fire?" he asked, groggily.

"Well, I'm not." Rusty answered with a laugh. "No, that was Saul. Me and Danny need to go into work. Some sort of emergency. Sleep in as long as you like, help yourself to anything that's in the kitchen and let yourself out. You remember where the spare key is, right?"

He nodded sleepily. "In the cutlery drawer." He'd suggested a while ago that they should keep it under the doormat, or on the ledge above the door, or anywhere that it would actually be useful in the event of being locked out, but Rusty had just grinned and said that they didn't want to encourage thieves. And remembering the _look_ that Danny had given him then, Livingston couldn't help but wonder.

"Uh huh." Rusty bent over and kissed him for a brief, tender moment and Livingston started to feel a lot more awake. "Gotta go. If you're not here when I get back I'll give you a call tonight, okay?"

"Have a good day." he called as the bedroom door shut.

Opportunity. He stayed in bed for exactly another half hour after he heard the front door shut, watching the numbers on the clock change, afraid that if he got up and started snooping that would be the moment when the door would open again, and it would turn out that Rusty had forgotten his wallet or something, and he wouldn't be able to explain and it would all be unbearably awkward.

But thirty minutes passed and nothing, so he got up and stood looking round the room. So. If he was evidence that his sweet, funny, incredibly good-looking and unfathomably brilliant boyfriend was, in fact, a crook, where would he be? This sort of thing was definitely easier on TV. With a shrug he figured he'd start with the room he was in. After all, both he and all of Danny's passing crushes had complete access to the kitchen and lounge. And searching Rusty's room might be distasteful but it was slightly less weird than searching Danny's room. He bit his lip and decided to start with the underwear drawer.

After about an hour of painstaking work – with a few hair-raising moments when he couldn't remember whether a pair of socks had been lying _that_ way or _that_ way – Livingston was just about ready to concede that other than a well-thumbed copy of 'The Wonderful Wizard of Oz' stuffed between drawers, a pair of too-shiny gold cufflinks in the shape of dice, and a photo of Rusty and Danny grinning conspiratorially at each other in what appeared to be a cable car, there was absolutely nothing troubling in Rusty's dressing table.

There was also nothing under the bed, other than a half-finished box of cracker jacks which he vaguely remembered Rusty munching on the previous evening.

In a moment of inspiration he'd gone around the room, poking at the floor and ceiling and tapping on the walls, looking for hidden compartments, but all that had happened was that the man next door had knocked back.

He was just about ready to give up. It wasn't like he had any idea what he was looking for. Sighing, he told himself that he'd search Rusty's wardrobe and if there was no black and white striped sweater with accompanying 'swag' bag, he'd call it a day and admit that he'd been being paranoid.

The sweater was nowhere in evidence, but he did find a turquoise shirt with a little palm tree motif at the hem which he promised himself that he'd contrive to rip if Rusty ever wore it on one of their dates.

He stood back from the wardrobe with a grimace and looked at the box on the top shelf. Honestly, he was rapidly losing the heart for this. He really didn't want to be the guy pawing through his boyfriend's photo-collection - or worse.

Still, he'd said he'd search the wardrobe, and that would be it. If he didn't there'd always be the doubt, so he carefully pulled the box down, noting that it had been just a little off being plumb against the wall. A little leather packet fell down with it, and frowning he picked it up and unrolled it.

He was confronted by a wide selection of oddly-shaped, gleaming little tools and he felt his heart stop. None of them were exactly familiar to him – he didn't know what any of them in particular _was_ – but he'd seen the same sort of set-up on TV. He knew what they were.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. It was true. It was all true. And suddenly he realised that he'd been looking to disprove it, he'd been _expecting_ to disprove it, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

Numbly he turned his attention back to the box. Almost dreading what he was going to see, he raised the lid. On top were building plans, clearly marked as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. An involuntary giggle escaped him; well, at least they weren't unambitious. He glanced over them, seeing the notes in a very familiar hand marking out the location of the security cameras, the exits, the pressure pads. How could he do this?

He leafed through the remaining contents of the box. Mostly it was a wide selection of fake IDs – maintenance worker, drivers license in the name of Tony Munroe, French passport, museum pass for a visiting professor, and an accompanying validated parking permit.

With shaking hands he dropped everything back into the box and carefully replaced it, and the lockpicks, on the shelf where he'd found them.

He had to leave. Now.

* * *

For the next two weeks he avoided Rusty to the best of his ability. He cancelled every date and invented plans for every time that Rusty called him. And yeah, some of the stories he invented were pretty weak. Apparently he lacked talent as a liar. After the third time Rusty wasn't trying to hide the hurt in his voice. After the fifth time he stopped calling.

_Oh, come on. Stop looking at me like that. I know, I know, I was a complete bastard, but it was a very long time ago. I was young, confused. I didn't know. And Rusty forgave me ages ago. Even Danny did, so seriously, __**stop looking at me like that!**_

He just didn't know what to think, and he certainly didn't know what to do. The idea of calling the police, or even the museum, didn't occur to him until three days had gone by, and he dismissed it immediately, He couldn't do that. He really, really, couldn't do that. And that told him something right there, though it took him another ten days to finally accept it.

Because he wasn't really able to work up a good dose of moral outrage about it all. Yeah, he was hurt and angry that Rusty hadn't told him, but, well, that was more than understandable really, wasn't it? And yes, okay, there was still the possibility that they were dangerous and violent, but he was having real trouble reconciling the idea of 'vicious criminals' with the guys he'd watch come up with a non-competitive version of foosball; the guy he'd caught getting all teary-eyed over 'A Star is Born'; or the guy tracked all over town to pick up the orange popsicles he liked so much when he'd had a sore throat that time. Maybe he was just naïve. Maybe he just didn't have a good enough imagination. But he couldn't make it work in his head.

And the simple truth of the matter was that since he'd met Rusty his life had got better in every way imaginable. Leaving aside the mind-blowing sex - which, while fantastic probably wasn't actually a good enough reason to close his eyes to all illegal activities – there was still the simple fact that he was in imminent danger of turning his back on one of the few people he'd ever known who had seen past the awkward geek and actually got him. Someone clever and witty who not only understood what he was saying but found him interesting and funny and even just a little bit cool. And while he was with Rusty, maybe he really was those things.

Not to mention that work had got so much better since they'd done whatever to O'Brien. Without him there to start it all off the petty bullying he'd had to deal with had nearly stopped. Nearly. That kind of friendship, that kind of loyalty – was he really prepared to give it all up just because the guys freely offering it were responsible for separating a few wealthy morons from their assets?

But on the other hand . . . He just didn't know.

Two weeks and he hadn't figured out anything more than the fact that he didn't want to close any doors just yet. But either Rusty was screening his calls (and Livingston wouldn't blame him) or else he was genuinely out (stealing things) because two days and he couldn't reach him. Finally he decided to go round and if Rusty was in, great, and if not he'd leave a note or something. Chocolates maybe. Or flowers. Or not.

The door was ajar, that was the first sign that something was wrong. The arguing voices was the second. Unsure of what to do, he lingered just outside and listened.

"Well, I wasn't the one who thought it'd be a good idea to leap off the staircase." Rusty. Sounding frustrated, and maybe a little . . . worried?

"The camera moved. What was I – " Danny sounded tired.

Rusty interrupted him. "Some of us hid in the closet."

"Some of us weren't prepared to deal with the inevitable jokes." Danny shot back.

"So you decided to jump instead?"

There was a pause and Livingston could imagine – though not understand, never understand, - the silent conversation he couldn't see.

"Keep that ankle up." Rusty said finally. "I'll close the door."

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Livingston pulled himself together and knocked.

After a second, Rusty swung the door open wide and smiled on seeing Livingston. There was relief and apprehension in his eyes, and Livingston still felt like a bastard. He could see Danny lying on the sofa behind Rusty, his ankle wrapped in ice and on a pile of cushions.

Rusty saw him looking and moved ever so slightly to block his view. "Hi, Livingston, look, please believe me when I say I'm really glad to see you, but this really isn't a good time."

"Was it the Met?" he blurted out.

He had to hand it to them, there was absolutely no reaction. The atmosphere in the room didn't change in the slightest. Rusty simply gave him a quizzical look and repeated "The Met?" in a bemused tone.

"I know. About what you and Danny do. I got to thinking after O'Brien, and then I did some snooping, and I'm sorry about that, but I found stuff and that's why I cancelled our dates and I'm _really_ sorry about that, and, yeah. Sorry."

Rusty quickly glanced past him, out into the hall. Livingston looked round as well, but there was no-one there. Then he suddenly felt a hand on his shirt and he was pulled inside and the door was shut firmly behind him.

He and Rusty stood staring at each other for a long moment. "What happens now?" Livingston asked finally.

Rusty shrugged. "Could you get some more ice please? And the bandages? They're in the cupboard with the pot stands. And there's some Tylenol on the spice rack."

Oh. Right. He hurried into the kitchen and quickly found what Rusty had asked for. When he turned back and deposited everything on the chair next to Danny, they were once again exchanging long, meaning-filled looks. His attention was caught by Danny's ankle which looked unpleasantly swollen.

"Is it broken?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

"No." Danny answered shortly, as Rusty packed more ice around it. "Just sprained."

"Does it hurt?" he asked, feeling stupid as Rusty passed Danny the Tylenol and a glass of water.

"Yes." Danny said, through gritted teeth, and he decided to shut up for a while.

"Take three." Rusty advised. "Make you less grumpy."

There was silence for a while, as Rusty got on with what, in anyone else, Livingston would have been inclined to call fussing.

"I'm not going to tell anyone." he blurted out finally. There was a noticeable lightening of tension, and he suddenly realised that Rusty and Danny had no more idea than he did what was supposed to happen next. Somehow that made everything a lot easier.

"For real?" Rusty asked carefully.

"Yeah. I mean, I thought about it for a while," he admitted, "But I just couldn't do it." He swallowed. "But, well, I will if . . . I mean, I need to know. Do you ever hurt anyone?"

Two completely shocked expressions came his way. "No!" Rusty exclaimed.

Danny shook his head. "We're not like that."

"But you are criminals." he felt compelled to ask, just to make sure that they really were all on the same page here.

"Yes." Danny answered immediately.

Okay, now for the hard one. "Why?"

Rusty didn't even hesitate. "It's what we do."

"It's what we're good at." Danny expanded.

Huh. He listened to the certainty in their tones and wondered. He'd never felt that confident about anything in his life. "Somewhere along the way, you picked up some really weird career advice." he joked uneasily.

Rusty grinned. "Maybe."

"Seriously, was it the Met?" He was still curious.

That wiped the smile off Rusty's face. He nodded. "Yeah. We've got a buyer lined up for a Pollock."

"There's supposed to be a blind-spot in the cameras. But it's not there quite long enough." Danny was looking at him thoughtfully. He didn't know why.

He also didn't quite get the problem. "Can't you just loop the tape?"

Rusty shook his head. "Controlled centrally by computer. We don't have the expertise. . . " As Rusty stopped and whipped his head round to glare at Danny, Livingston suddenly got it.

"I could do it." he said, and he would say that he didn't know why – except that he did. He really did. They both looked at him. "I mean, you know, if you're still planning . . . if you want me to. I could do it."

"No." Rusty said firmly, but it was Danny he was frowning at.

But why not? He couldn't think of a single reason. Because before his life had been ordered, predictable. Everything had been laid out for him, and this – all of this – had never been part of it. "Rus'." He waited until Rusty turned to look at him. "I know what I want."

* * *

The last three days had been some of the longest of his life. He'd had to sit in work, pretending to figure out the best way to keep thieves out, while in his head he was figuring out the best way to get two thieves in. And all the time he'd been so nervous – his supervisor was convinced he was sick, and had kept trying to send him home. But though Rus' and Danny hadn't said anything, well, he assumed that he should be trying to act as normal as possible.

Didn't exactly help that every single day he'd had to persuade the pair of them – individually, and occasionally together – that he hadn't changed his mind and wasn't going to.

Though, staring at the two monitors in front of him – one showing what was really happening, one showing what the surveillance tapes was going to show – telling himself over and over again that there was absolutely no way he was going to throw up, he wondered if maybe there was still time to back out.

They'd left him here twenty minutes ago.

"Shouldn't take more than an hour." Rusty had promised, handing over a pack of M&Ms. He hadn't been quite certain what that was supposed to accomplish but he'd appreciated the thought.

"We've fixed it so there should be no guards coming anywhere near the place," Danny had said, for what had to be the fifth time. "But if you're not certain – "

" – Get out." he'd nodded and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was neither a child nor an idiot.

"Don't wait for us. Don't waste time trying to warn us." They'd both stared intently at him, and he'd nodded, though in reality he had no intention of doing any such thing. He might not know how to be a professional thief but he knew how to be a friend.

Now he was watching the screen and sucking M&Ms while simultaneously trying to avoid thinking nausea-inducing paranoid thoughts and thoughts that were likely to produce a completely different effect. Because, he thought, as one of the black-clad figures he was watching (he was pretty sure it was Danny, but the picture quality wasn't that good) bent to remove the fake painting from the case, there was something incredibly sexy about the larcenous look. And when Rusty (if it was Rusty) stretched up to re-hang it, revealing just a hint of flesh as his top rode up, he was suddenly really glad that he was sitting down. Weak at the knees didn't even begin to cover it.

And when they were finished and Rusty turned and waved up at the security camera, and he could see the smile beneath the mask, he knew he'd been right. Because he was nervous as hell, and maybe just a little terrified, and it was dangerous, and illegal and definitely not the good, stable job with prospects that he'd been so lucky to get, but this was everything he wanted. Everything.

_You know, there's really not that much more to tell. After I got my cut – an equal share, the guys insisted no matter how often I pointed out that I hadn't been in all the way – well, I decided that the time had come to start moonlighting. So I worked a few jobs with Rusty and Danny, got introduced to a few people, and within six months I was able to quit work and I've never looked back._

_Well, that wasn't what you asked about in the first place. _

_Fine, me and Rusty . . . we just drifted apart, I guess. No, that's not quite right. I mean, he's still one of the closest friends I'll ever have. He's still the first guy I call when I'm in trouble. _

_But for the rest, well, I got pretty busy pretty quickly. There was always something new and interesting, you know? And then Danny had to leave New York in a hurry._

_Of course Rusty went with him. Like there was ever any doubt._

_I don't know, we just kind of agreed we were better as friends._

_It's not like I ever fell in love with him or anything._

_Hey, would __**I**__ lie to you? _

* * *

**And that's an ending people - so, if you've had an opinion about this story, I'd really love it if you let me know.**


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